


That Which Dare Not Speak Its Name

by Nutcracker_Witch



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Complete, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Post-Canon, Romance, Short One Shot, Suggestive Themes, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nutcracker_Witch/pseuds/Nutcracker_Witch
Summary: Sebastian is a patient demon, but he wondered, not for the first time, what ran in the mind of an astonishing figure marred by sentiment. What kind of butler would he be if he couldn't solve this test of forbearance?





	That Which Dare Not Speak Its Name

“Feeling a bit frisky today, are we? Not there, handsome…”

Sebastian had long been used to her sensibilities. That didn't mean he grew tired of them, simply that he expected the realization to snap her wits back to her sooner this time. As it was, however, she casually batted his hand away from the offending thing to less interesting (though, no less savory) parts. 

As if he would not notice… 

Lying a presumptuous shoulder on white sheets behind her, he indulged Grelle regardless with a lazy huff. For the time being.

“As you wish.”

He slipped a delicate finger out of the battered hole. Lowering his gaze, along with his hand, from the dip of her back, he saw that her aforementioned coat looked no worse for the wear than usual. Though, with the amount of stitches across, it resembled more Frankenstein’s monster than anything else.

The devil of a former butler was hoping the cozy atmosphere of the lovely home they’d stolen in would make her more amenable to his prying ministrations, but no such luck. It's easy interior was all wooden floors and velvet cloth much like the bedroom they were in. Both covered from head to toe in red, of course, but it was just a coincidence she'd managed to find any home suited to her taste in decor from a woman she’d freshly reaped. What was proving difficult now was remembering how enamored she was by it, swathed in the lacy shams she’d skinned from the pillows of the canopy bed in amazement, when she was pointedly ignoring everything in favor of his apparent faux pas.

She snatched up her jacket, eyes comically wide, and held it up accusingly. Her phosphorous eyes burned through the growing pinhole into an imposingly dull, crimson eye while she scoffed.

As if he'd been the one who opened it in the first place and not herself…

Perhaps, he was a bit impatient.

“I don't mind you getting a bit handsy, but don't be such a brute! I do love that about you, but you’ll need to pay me back for this, you know! Oh, don’t fret about it. I know just the thing you can do...” 

As if she ever waited for Sebastian to help mend it…

Actually, never mind. He was quite done with the whole affair. He intended to move on and he wouldn't settle for less than the genuine article. Shifting his arm, he leaned forward to grab it from her tense grip.

“Forgive me, dear,” he smiled cheekily, “but if you'll allow me to mend it correctly, you won't need to go through the trouble of fixing it so often.”

“Such a sweetheart, you are! I love that about you too! Still… There's no need for that, darling. I've managed it thus far. Now, hand it back to me.” 

“I’m afraid not.”

He tugged.

“Give it to me!” 

She tugged back petulantly.

“No.”

“Why?”

She pulled harshly, teeth grinding.

“Because I don't want to.”

He pulled harder, smile unwavering.

“Hands off!” she growled, pulling with all the tame might she could manage. It was then, in that moment, the small tearing noise in their periphery had grown to a volume large enough to capture their attention as the last stitch of fabric broke at the seams, revealing a pit conspicuous enough to fit a death scythe.

They froze in shock.

He stared over it curiously to notice her eyes that were crinkled in...Anger, sadness, guilt, frustration?

Or maybe they were scrunched up like she had some bitter pill to swallow.

He didn't care which of these, if he were being a perfectly honest creature. Which, he was at all times, if not particularly forthright in the details. Whatever it was this time, the devil had gleaned enough from multiple of these mutual glimpses through the meticulously and crudely patched holes in that coat to know the looks’ relevance. To that end, he needed only to fill the remaining gaps of her past.

You see, Julien Wanghen loathed the dull and mousy brown hair he had inherited from his father and envied the vivacious, red locks of his mother. Dramatic to the end, he saw only one solution to this grievous oversight by God. Indeed, it was the only one that could be expected from a future reaper: death.

In death, he could have it all: the red hair, the femininity, the stage, and the man he loved. All of this fantasy seized in an instant through the skill of an “actress”, presumably, acquired itself by living within a society unfit for such a… unique presence. Although, it was, perhaps, not so much a final act as an assertion of passion.

In death, there was more paperwork to be done.

“I might as well have spent that useless time becoming more fashionable,” or so she said. 

So, the devil imagined that as being the reason “Grelle Sutcliffe” literally fashioned both rows of teeth in the style of a restlessly wild animal: the same fashion as the rest of “her”.

Regarding her as she continued clutching literal rags of her past and knowing this, the situation appeared rather silly to him. That is, until he considered the remaining tale whilst stretching his lips.

Unlucky in life and love, she had further wishes left to fulfill and approached them with the fervor a beast, not unlike himself, stalks a hunt. Sebastian would insist it was substantially crasser than that, but he digressed. 

Day in and day out, the same unluckiness caused a storm of inactivity to manifest. The same previously fresh blood dried quickly from her overly technically-skilled hands. The same records spun reruns of equally dull and dreary cliches. The same frustration of pining for the man at her side who would hardly look askance until her insubordination forced a disinclined hand. It was pathetic, but worst of all it was boring.

Suddenly, a flash of the previously dull red color appeared to shine once more on her list of soon-to-be corpses. The myriad of drab whores never caught her attention, but somehow they led her to that color in her life she'd nearly forgotten could dazzle so vivaciously.

At long last, she found someone to carry out her dreams on bloodied Valkyrie wings. For a brief time, it satisfied her. What better accessory for a woman than her mirror? But, from that dreaded sentiment, the hesitation Madame Red for too long carried, much longer than her resentment, festered an ugly wound that blotted out their red sun. Her shattered wings burned blue that day, as blue as that sentiment. The reaper swung the paltry red from her listless hands.

Grelle may have played the clumsy butler, but she would never let herself be played a fool.

It was complete chance, no matter what she herself insists, that the Phantomhive boy would focus Grelle’s attention back to the dashing butler afterward. Reluctantly, but with everything she possessed, she performed spectacularly. The botched execution, however, left much to be desired. It was as much a failure in acting as it was a relief in hindsight.

The rest was a painfully inconvenient history that happened to include the death of Sebastian’s own master, but he liked to believe things worked out for the better in the end. Case in point, they were both here and satiated. Stripped of everything they were by a cruel tempest, only “Grelle” and “Sebastian” remained steadfast in its wake. 

So, he hoped, anyway. Sebastian would eke out a future from this mere game of love and chance even if it killed them. 

Brusquely, in the way one would strip a bandage, he grasped one end of the tattered cloth as she tightly held onto the other. He stared at her in vexation.

Guarding it so close to her bosom, one would think it were not a coat at all, but a lifeline. Ironic, for their line of business. But behind it, the coupled vulnerability and strength he sensed all seemed rather bizarre, yet human-like for the one wielding it. 

His eyelids relaxed over glowing, ruby eyes in the dim room. He chuckled.

_How very curious and how awfully…_

“Beautiful,” Sebastian murmured.

At the absolute candor of the statement, presented whole-heartedly with each cell of the crowing demon’s carefully constructed facade, he was affronted by an indecorous kiss given freely with as much gusto. The sanguinity of it bled from every pore of her quivering lips even without the actual taste of blood from having his mouth shredded by serrated teeth. 

Truth be told, he was merely offended it’s purity seemed to be diluted by unknown emotions. He wasn't necessarily complaining since it gave her shade of passion an oddly complex flavor. Although, he was certain the other was either not aware of this or tried her best to drown them out. Her very soul seemed grimly drenched in red as much as it flowed through her hair, heart, and the rest of her body. It stained wherever it ran. This fact could not escape them: 

Red asserted itself it garishly, no matter the situation.

Surprisingly, they never stained the sheets.

Following several of these increasingly ardent and indecent acts, the fire at last seemed to tame into embers within the other’s flaming heart (or what some, like the devil, considered her soul). Exhaustion was the only thing he could sense from her now out of the ashes.

The neglected garment, for its part, lay elegantly on the floor jointly to it’s unraveled spool of black ribbon.

Staring loosely at her supine form, the demon thought he could empathize with keeping a great flame from burning itself out. They took a comparably large will and patience to keep alive, but in return also took a toll on one’s heart in the end. The more brightly a fire burned, the faster it died out. Anyone living by the fate of the stars knew how short-lived their own lifestyle would be. Yet, still they went at the same rate. It was almost suicidal.

Knowing all this, should he hold back? Would he begin to? Not now nor evermore.

It took a peck on the cheek for her to stir languidly. Gathering her jaw-dropping amount of wits, she wasted no time in pouring honeyed nothings into his ears. He greedily sipped them up, the giggling expressions traveling through his void of conscience and metamorphosing into echoing chirps of his own that sounded suspiciously like sentiment reverberating in his chest. 

They tore apart the curtains with bare hands, dissatisfied with the prevailing darkness for the moment. The relentless morning sunlight piercing through the windows became nearly unbearable. Neither of them said a word apart from, occasionally, each other's names as they were beat over the head with it. After all, it was the little death of a past that would remain within its proper resting place in time.

The meaning of the sentiment was lost on them both, but they would find, within death, it’s clarity preserved on wax. Whosoever realized it before the other was valueless; Sebastian would handle the full brunt of the assault when the time came anyway.

For he was one hell of a lover.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this closer to the blood moon last month, but... it didn't work out, clearly.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
